


Last (Another) Day

by veryvincible



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Gun in the Nightstand, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Unreliable Narrator-ish, almost, in the sense that he has a warped view of himself and this is not implied to be resolved by the end, there's a lot of hopelessness/repetitiveness in the first bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryvincible/pseuds/veryvincible
Summary: Tony thinks this might be his last day alive.-Mind the tags, please. This is laden with suicidal ideation.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Last (Another) Day

The gun is a familiar weight in his hands, though it’s unsatisfying; the thought of any weapon being _satisfying_ to hold makes him feel wholly unlike himself, but it’s the first thing to come to mind when he takes the little thing out from its place in his nightstand drawer. It’s unsatisfying.

He can think his way out of just about anything. He’s gotten this far with that method, but something tells him it won’t work tonight. Maybe preserving his state of mind isn’t quite worth the effort anymore.

The gears turn in his head anyway. _It’s muscle memory,_ the whirring whispers to him, though the thoughts come in stuttered, as if the machinery up there’s rusted. _That little thing is small, unfamiliar. It’s not your first pick. You know that._

It’s not. It’s not over 18 ounces in weight, the barrel barely longer than the grip. It holds eight rounds, seven of which aren’t necessary now and might never be. It all depends on what the others do when they find it, on whether or not another round will fire when it’s dropped, on whether it’ll be labeled “evidence” or something else, something to be inherited.

The trigger is finicky. He can tell by its jerky movements as his trembling finger rests atop it, the gun’s muzzle pointed at nothing in particular and the safety already off. It’s not natural, fiddling with the thing like this— there’s a part of him that’s screaming to get his goddamn finger off the trigger, to flip the safety back on, to be mindful of where he’s pointing the thing before he gets someone hurt.

But who is there to hurt?

He’s the only one here.

It’s almost thrilling, to be so careless. It reminds him of his youth— of the youth he saw in his youth, at least, as he was rarely more than a spectator to the antics of others. But every so often, he’d be roped into something reckless, something dangerous, and he’d feel the same bittersweet thrill that came with violent risk taking at any cost.

He can count on one hand how many times he’s tried to feel this release, how many times he’s tried to push himself to the brink, but even then, it’s never been for him. It never will be— at least, not entirely. Peaceful, fulfilling deaths are reserved for those who deserved the lives that preceded them.

And he didn’t. Plain and simple.

He could put a bullet in his head in a fit of anger, frustration, sadness, whatever it might be… and it’ll never be just for him. Some part of him will know, even in the end, that he’d have loved to be the kind of man who could guiltlessly overstay his welcome. But he’s not, and he won’t ever be— he could put a bullet in his head in a fit of every feeling he’s ever felt, and the ghost of him would kneel over his body, fading extremities shaking violently as he’d ask, _Is this enough? Is this enough, finally? Have I done it right this time?_

There would be no answer. There never is an answer. There won’t be, and he’s counting on that, hoping that the silence and nothingness to come will house him well.

It’s late. He should be asleep by now. He guesses he’ll make up for the lost time.

He sits on the edge of his bed, sweatpants wrinkled and a little heavy with the sweat of the week’s nightmares and torso uncomfortably bare, given the circumstances. He hasn’t had the chest plate in quite a while, yet he still wonders how he braves each day without it. He’s woken up a handful of times, bare like he is now, having deluded himself into panic and labored breathing before realizing how far past all that he is.

He knows his schedule inside and out, always as aware as he possibly can be; he has lunch with Jan on Thursday, an appointment with Bucky at some point the day after (his pinky finger’s been “freaking the fuck out”, Bucky’d said, “and there’s nothing really awful about that, but it freaks _me_ the fuck out.”) Steve gets home Saturday. Their anniversary is next week. Of course, he has work on top of that.

It’s not the best time for this. He knows. There’s never a best time for this. He could hold it out until Thursday and listen to Jan’s excited rants, let her blow some steam after all the stress she’s been having. He’d undoubtedly be roped into a bit of retail therapy; he feels his richest with Jan, stopping into stores he’d never bring anyone else to and making purchases larger than he’d ever make on his own. Personal purchases, at least. He’s grateful for her— he can’t even count the soft, fitted shirts and comfortable dress pants he owns as a result of her dragging him through shops. He can’t count the number of times he’s been grateful to own them, so overwhelmed some days that anything lower quality feels scratchy, restrictive, _too much._

He wonders how tone deaf that might sound out loud— how privileged, ostentatious, self-pitying.

He could hold it out until Friday. He could drop by Bucky’s place and say hi to Alpine— the little guy’s soft, Tony remembers, and less apprehensive toward strangers than Liho. He could fix Bucky’s arm, make another joke about making it vibrate (the holidays are long-past, so there won’t be any “Christmas lights” jokes, here, but he could hold it out until then, too). Bucky’s always been good about the exhaustion. He’s felt it himself, _feels_ it himself, so many times over that sometimes Tony’s in awe of it— in a not-so-great way, of course, like someone might be in awe of an oil spill or all the waste in the seas. He feels small next to Bucky sometimes, feels like his pain’s not quite as deserved.

He’ll never mention it. He won’t put that on anyone else’s shoulders. And part of him is worried about what it might turn into, what banter might arise from it; _God, me too, you know?_ Bucky might say. _I guess that’s everyone. I guess that’s just how pain is, when it gets to be too much. No one’s brain ever wants to believe it’s real_ , Bucky might say, and Tony will be forced to laugh along, his selfish attempt at taking himself down a peg failed.

He could hold it out for Steve. For their anniversary, maybe.

After all they’ve been through, it feels wrong not to.

But part of him is thinking about it like a high schooler might think about Valentine’s Day. Sure, it might hurt to break up the day before, but is it worse to milk him for all he’s got the day of and then royally fuck it all up the day after? Is it?

It’s not, Tony thinks. He wants it to be. He wants it to be the most selfish thing, because he doesn’t want _this_ to be the most selfish thing. He doesn’t want to be told that being here right now, wanting this _right now_ , is wrong. But he’s nothing if not brutally honest with himself.

If nothing else, Steve won’t find his body.

They’ll realize he’s missing before then. Someone’s going to come up to check on him.

Maybe it’ll be Jan. Maybe they’ll call Rhodey in— he’s always had the key to every door Tony’s locked, after all.

The thought makes him feel sicker than he did before.

Part of him misses being a child in these moments. Part of him misses having his nose stuck in a book in the courtyard, the sun bearing down on his too-dark uniform. He misses being a third of his mother’s size, hiding behind her legs when the world was too much for him. He misses being so young and so stupid that he could delude himself into thinking atonement was open to him— being some poor, sad fucking 7-or-8-or-9-or-10 year old doomed by rot in his veins and the nature to share it all. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he’s been more good than bad. Maybe he never was.

The truth of it is, none of that was better, really. He was still prone to pensiveness as a child, and his nostalgia is bitter, ever-changing, lying to him. He read his books in the courtyard and was humiliated for it. He’d hide behind his mother and he’d be shooed into the next room (the regret on her face evident, the concern for him clear). He’d think, _One day, I’ll be safer than this, and I’ll be better than this, and I’ll be okay_ and he’d be lying to himself.

It’s the same ratio of good to bad these days as it’s always been.

He remembers being that child in the courtyard, having nothing to miss— there were too few years of experience at the time, and he often felt too broken and irreparable to want to go back home. He remembers having nowhere to escape to, remembers especially bad nights where the fantasy worlds of knights and heroes did nothing for him. He’d try to connect to the words on the page, _desperate_ for them to come to life, and he’d be greeted with paper corpses.

He always wondered how he never resented them, not even for a moment. And now he thinks he knows. He turned all of it inward. _Don’t meet your heroes,_ he thinks sardonically at the revelation. _You’ll only disappoint them._

And he did. He does. King Arthur. Captain America. Everyone he’s ever looked up to, he feels, would seethe at the sight of him now.

He has an escape, at least. Doesn’t he? He has an escape this time.

He looks around himself, now, at the too-neat walls of the penthouse and the cute, comfortable decor he and Steve picked out together. He looks at the home he doesn’t deserve, the home that could be piled ceiling-high with the bodies of those he’s failed— friends, lovers, _children_ , even— and it would be no more suffocating than it is now.

His hand curls more firmly around the gun— an easy, practiced gesture, because of course it is. It’s a reminder of who he is, who he always has been: a man most familiar with destruction.

He sticks the muzzle of the gun into his mouth unceremoniously, half-wondering if Bucky would be proud that he remembers all that talk about the _apricot_ , the place to aim for something instant, something guaranteed.

Almost, at least. Because there’s always an almost.

Tony casts a final glance at the door, takes a deep breath, and— 

_Click._

He tosses the gun away at the sound of the lock, head snapping up to the door. The gun fires as it makes contact with the ground, and Tony sees the hard flinch of Steve’s uniformed shoulders as he enters, one week too early.

“What was—” Steve starts, too startled to finish. He meets Tony’s eyes.

 _What was that?_ Steve might ask him.

 _Thought you were an intruder,_ Tony would say, though it might sound like a bold-faced lie; his security’s not exactly lax, and the gun is hardly the first thing he’d reach for when the suit’s so close by.

 _Oh,_ Steve would say anyway, because what’s the alternative? What else would he think? Tony hasn’t given him any reason to think otherwise, has he? _Well, I brought dinner,_ Steve would say, and he’d pick the gun up, flick the safety on, put it back in the nightstand. He’d take a seat and go on with their night, business as usual. He’d tell Tony about his mission.

And Tony might say, _I’m sorry, I really don’t give a fuck_ , or _I’m having an affair_ , or anything, really, _anything_ to get Steve out again, to just— to just get him to leave. And Steve would. He’d get up, he’d turn around, he’d walk away. And Tony, selfishly, would put that bullet in his head knowing damn well Steve would come right back in, knowing damn well that Steve would find his body, hold his body, cry over his body— 

Because that’s the kind of person Tony is, isn’t he? Deluding himself into thinking he’s a man to clean up his own messes, ignorant to the plights of those who follow in the wake of his destruction, irradiated and disfigured by his mistakes.

“Tony?” Steve asks, saying none of those things Tony had predicted. Steve knows him that well, doesn’t he? Or is it just obvious, _painfully_ obvious, that he was always going to end up here? Does the whole team know? The whole world?

He gets up, hands still trembling as he picks the gun up off the floor. It’s unclear in what direction it shot, and Tony’s not really of the mind to be finding bullet holes in the walls. He clicks the safety on himself, gaze lingering on the trigger for a moment too long before he shoves the whole thing a little too hard back into the nightstand, shutting the drawer. 

He can’t do it.

He can’t argue. He can’t push Steve away right now, not so close to— and he can’t blow Jan off. Can’t leave Bucky with that stupid broken pinky of his. He can’t do it.

Something in him keeps in mind the eye of the public, its gaze like chains around his wrists tethering him forcefully to reality. He keeps in mind the drunks, the depressed, and all those in need who were at one point deluded into thinking he was some kind of role model, some pinnacle of modern health and recovery that he just— He isn’t, he feels like. Not anymore. Recovery certainly isn’t linear, but if it ends like this, is it really recovery?

He feels selfish for even letting it get this far, selfish for letting it happen, for wanting to—

To lose.

Right? He’s losing. And he can’t just lose like that, can’t just disappoint— can’t just take away a hero like that, the hero he never asked to be, the persona he never truly felt at home in. He’d spent so much of his life _lying_ , and now he’s stuck in it, trapped by it, can’t get away from it unless he—

Unless he’s gone. And he thinks back to that 8 year old kid enamored with King Arthur, wonders how he would have felt if the last story he’d ever read was of Arthur slitting his own throat and bleeding out on the ground.

And he cries.

It’s suffocating, being on display like he is; he should feel grateful for the love, the praise, the honor that comes with being that hero for so many kids like the one he used to be. He _is_ grateful. He’s just weighed down by it, unwillingly grounded by it, and he’s so tired of being chained down to reality like this.

“Tony,” Steve repeats, more wounded this time. He wraps his arms around Tony, pulls Tony in. Tony’s sobs are quiet, and he knows he’s only pressing closer to muffle them, some voice in his head telling him that to cry openly is dangerous, still, after all these years.

“You’re not _losing_ ,” Steve starts, and it dawns upon Tony that he started talking at some point in the middle of all that thinking. He’s not sure what he said. He’s certain, though, that nothing of it was as eloquent at loud as it had been in his head. It never is. Steve doesn’t seem to mind. “Look at me, c’mere.”

And Tony does, though he knows nothing Steve says will settle in. Nothing will seem right or feel right or— or be right, and it’s an impossible situation to be putting Steve in, and he _knows_ how frustrating it must be, but he’s trying. God, he’s trying.

“No one’s deluded themselves into— Jesus, Tony,” Steve says, and Tony’s not sure whether he’s disappointed or just a victim of Tony’s ever-reaching projection.

“What do you need?” Steve asks, then, making it painfully obvious that he’s cycling through all of his options. Tony can’t blame him for that.

“Nothing,” Tony answers, as truthful as he can be. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have to sort through it on your own.”

“I know. I know, but I don’t— Right now, I don’t need anything, Steve, I just want to forget about this.”

“Tony.”

“I want to forget about this. C’mon, you just got home. Let’s get some takeout. Watch a movie, maybe.” Tony forces the ease into his voice. It’s a weak effort, one Steve will see through in an instant, but it’s not entirely useless. Steve knows what to do with that, at least.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice understandably dull. He’s trying too, though. Tony can tell. “I’ll just get changed.”

“I’ll place the order.”

They stand together. Steve pauses, keeps an eye on Tony. He doesn’t seem entirely ready to walk away.

He steps closer, closes what little distance is in between them, and wraps his arms tight around Tony. Tony sighs, lets his weight fall against the solid mass of Steve’s body.

He’ll cry again. He can feel it, the tension and painful burn behind his eyes. He’ll cry again tonight. And Steve will be there, like he is now. It’s not much, but. It’s enough, he thinks. Not to keep him happy, not to fix him, not to make things much better.

But it’s enough to make the night bearable, maybe even salvageable in whatever way broken nights can be.


End file.
